<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Puppet by oculeths (CherryK)</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24324745">Puppet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryK/pseuds/oculeths'>oculeths (CherryK)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Azeroth and Beyond - A Collection of Cherry's OC Shenanigans [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>World of Warcraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hearing Voices, Insanity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:22:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24324745</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryK/pseuds/oculeths</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the course of several months Xevernias has put his son through hell and back. The Void has been lying in wait, just beyond Ilethar's consciousness.</p>
<p>When the son finally caves under the pressure, he unleashes a blast that does not just eradicate the father, but also a part of himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Azeroth and Beyond - A Collection of Cherry's OC Shenanigans [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1323353</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Puppet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This takes place several months after "Mana Burn", it can be read as a standalone, though!</p>
<p>I have no idea if this really counts as like, -graphic- graphic, as I don't usually write this kind of stuff... but I wanted to be on the safe side with the rating. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯</p>
<p>Also I wanna dedicate this one to Anne, who has been an angel in putting up with my oatmeal brain and helped me figure some shit out.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ilethar has been sitting like this for hours. His joints ache from keeping so still, with his knees bent towards his chest and both arms locked tightly around the legs. His eyes do not see his surroundings, the Void still occupying his vision. Whatever the spell he has cast truly was the mage can’t begin to fathom, but it has consumed the majority of his mana. Trying to remember what he was doing in the moments before releasing the blast makes his head pound. Since then he’s found himself collapsed on the ground, shivering. He doesn’t need to see. He knows. They have, for once, whispered the truth – bitter as it may taste.</p>
<p>Ilethar has killed his own father.</p>
<p>He’s muttering it into the darkness, over and over against the onslaught in his mind, that it was an accident, that he didn’t mean to, that this isn’t real. The Void disagrees. They’ve heard him protesting for long enough, silently complaining about his father’s ruthlessness, about the strain he’s been putting on him, both physically and mentally. They’ve helped him endure it all, have bent and shaped him to their will until the old man was rendered useless, and the son ready to become their new vessel. He’s ignored them for too long. Now, they’ve put him out of his misery and eradicated the one thing suppressing them both; a small act of kindness bestowed upon the mortal to pave the way for greater things.</p>
<p>He should be easy to steer now, even more malleable in the head now that they’ve fully taken root. Soon enough they will have him yielding to their influence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“You w a n t e d him dead.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He stumbles over the words in his mouth, his incessant mantra, as the voice interrupts him. He feels cold, both inside and out. There are hands pressed against his ears, and it takes far too long for his liking for him to realize that they are his own. He lowers them, half-expecting them to be drenched in blood, and his vision clears at the horrible, sinking feeling in his gut. Yet, all he finds are the same scarred hands he has known for years, although they shake uncontrollably. He struggles to close them into fists to stop the tremors.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“</em>
  <em>Look at what you’ve d o n e.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No, he thinks frantically. A sharp pain shoots through his mind, chiding him for disobedience.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“You did it w i l l i n g l y.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For the first time he actually looks at his father, tired eyes blinking back slowly into the reality around him. It takes a moment for him to register what he’s seeing. It doesn’t look like Xevernias at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“It is y o u r doing alone.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The torn clothes perhaps would remind of the man, but the shape of this hopelessly deformed heap of flesh has nothing to do with the person it once contained.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“This is your t r u e power.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His father’s limbs lie broken and twisted grotesquely in all directions. Chunks of the body are missing, revealing crushed bone underneath.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“Will you b e a r it?”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The head is caved in and oozing brain matter, corrupted and black as night. Silver eyes stare blankly ahead, already clouded, with no more malice in their depths.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“Or will you become his e q u a l?”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ilethar doesn’t immediately realize that the scream reaching his ears has torn itself from his very own throat. He forces his eyes shut; opens them again. Xevernias’ mangled corpse is still there, waiting to rot. The mage feels his heartbeat resounding throughout his entire body. He wants to retch, but can’t. His legs are leaden as he scrambles to his feet.</p>
<p>Somewhere, a part of him knows that he cannot outrun his own mind. Yet this – this scene, this mess – he can leave behind. If he no longer sees it, sees him… then maybe, just maybe they will shut up.</p>
<p>Ilethar doesn’t stop to count the bruises and scrapes the crumbling walls of Eldre’thalas leave on his skin as he blindly stumbles out into the forest beyond.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fucking. Finally. It's done. My boy can move on and get over it.</p>
<p>Once he manages to get his scattered two brain cells back in order, that is. Which is gonna take a while.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>